dry your smoke-stung eyes, so you can see the light
by kahlen369
Summary: Emma Swan knows Regina Blanchard, with her perfect clothes, her perfect grades, and seemingly perfect life. Or, she thought she did. Until she gets a horrifying glimpse of what lies underneath the surface of her picture perfect facade. She's in no position to do it, but she wants to be Regina's savior anyway. (High School SQ AU) Trigger warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Detailed trigger warning: long-term sexual, physical and emotional/psychological abuse, PTSD, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, grief, homelessness, and just lots of angst over it all.**

 **Clearly, this is not a happy story, overall. But it's not just an angstfest, and there's definitely some spots of light here or there. Just have some hope.**

 **Title from the song "In the Shallows" by Daughter**

* * *

Emma's been sleeping under the bleachers at night, because her latest foster home _sucks_ , but she's seventeen and this close to being kicked out anyway that there's no point in telling her social worker and getting shunted off to a new one for the last few months. So, even though basically being in school 24/7 sucks too, she tells herself it's okay because it's only for a few more months.

(She doesn't like to think too much about what comes _next_ , because if she's honest, it's probably just more of _this_ , but sleeping at the park instead, or in a homeless shelter, if she's a little luckier.)

It's starting to get colder though, and Emma's jacket really isn't thick enough to substitute for a heater. She's been practicing her lock picking though and observing the janitor when he locks up, so she's reasonably certain she can manage to break in after hours and sleep inside the comparatively warm halls of the school instead. But that's still future Emma's problem. Because for the moment, the janitor has just opened the school, and the first faculty and staff have started pouring in. Emma is just a few steps behind them, quickly sneaking into locker rooms for a quick shower before classes.

-o-

There isn't much time to enjoy the feeling of warm water on her skin, but she tries. If she were the type to believe in such things, the act of it feels cleansing in a way beyond literal. It's just plain _nice_ too, in a way so few things in her life are. After all she's been through, it's the little things, she's learned, that keep you going. For a few minutes, under the warm heat of the shower spray, she can believe that her life isn't completely horrible.

Emma forgets, underneath the water's vibrations on her skull and skin, about everything other than what she feels in that exact moment. It's a comfort she doesn't often get. She stretches out all the kinks she's gotten in her back from sleeping on the ground, and lets the water do its magic in her weary shoulders. A soft sigh of pleasure escapes her, and she allows herself, just a few minutes more to enjoy all this. It's a dangerous luxury, because the longer she lingers, the greater the chance she has of getting caught.

But she doesn't think about that. She lets her eyes slide close, and doesn't think about much of anything at all, except the pounding of the water.

-o-

At that moment, a different girl steps out into a deserted parking lot, shaky steps nearly buckling onto the asphalt. But, as always, she forces herself up, and then, she's practically running, straight towards the locker rooms, utterly desperate for a shower to wash away _everything_ still lingering on her skin.

-o-

Emma is still deep into her shower-induced bliss, eyes closed and mind blank, when she hears a noise. Her finely tuned senses of danger and paranoia have her quickly bursting into action, adrenaline making her surge forward. She turns the shower knob off immediately, despite the soap and shampoo still on her, and _waits_ , with bated breath. Her heart pounds damningly in her ears, and she is _sure_ that she has been caught.

The noise grows louder. They are footsteps, she quickly concludes, and they draw closer. Emma freezes, trying desperately to look through the curtain to find out who it is. She can vaguely see the shadows, enough to know it is only a single person, but nothing more. As the figure gets nearer, Emma realizes that she hears something like… _crying?_

Slowly, carefully, she inches a little closer to the opening in the cloth. Her eyes seek out the figure, who she finds drifting closer.

It takes a moment for her brain to pick up the signals her eyes are sending her and realize that she is looking at _Regina Blanchard_.

-o-

Emma isn't exactly a social butterfly, and she doesn't really have any friends at all, if she's being honest, because no one wants to hang out with the weird new transfer student who always wears raggedy clothing. She's pretty sure someone has already spilled the beans about her being a foster kid too, because she's been sent a few looks and heard some whispers. There are all sorts of rumors about her stealing cars, doing drugs, and horror of all horrors, being a _lesbian_. None of it is new to her, and the blonde doesn't really care what any of these stupid high school kids think of her.

(She has bigger worries-like where her next meal is coming from, and _seriously_ , what is going to do after she turns eighteen and gets kicked out of the system for good?)

Basically, Emma Swan is an outcast and loner-though the latter is at least partly by choice. Even so, she's not blind or deaf, and she always keeps tabs on the rumor mill because she knows that knowledge is a kind of power (and when you have so little power, as she does, she will cling to any small bit of it).

Regina Blanchard is just as much a pariah as she is, if in a completely different way, as no one would ever dare to bully or badmouths her to her face, like they do with Emma. The stepdaughter of the mayor, her family is both rich and powerful, and she knows for a fact that many of the students' parents work for their company. There are few people in town on that kind of socio-economic level, and all of them go to the fancy private school uptown instead. From what she's heard, Regina and her step-sister go to the local public to support government initiative or something, as part of some publicity scheme for the mayor. It sounds like utter bullshit to Emma, and clearly the other students can tell as well.

It is obvious that Regina does not belong, and she certainly doesn't try to hide it at all. She never dresses anything less than impeccably, in brands that cost more than Emma could ever hope to have in her bank account at any time, but she doesn't dress in any kind of high school acceptable fashion. In tailored suits or formal skirts, she fits in with the faculty more than the student body. With her worn out thrift store clothes, Emma might just be a tiny bit jealous of it all, but the fashion certainly doesn't bring Regina any favours. It's not just the suits and the skirts though. The attitude that comes along with it screams Ice Queen too, and that's one of the kinder things it's been called.

Emma isn't really smart enough to be in many classes with Regina, but they do have AP English together (writing is one of the few things she's _good_ at, shockingly enough), and it's more than enough to get a good impression. The other girl is basically the definition of an ice queen, with a glare that could cut steel that's pretty much constantly directed at basically everyone, no exceptions. She's even seen her take down some of the more incompetent teachers with little more than a cold correction over some fact or another.

-o-

So, Emma _knows_ Regina Blanchard.

At least, she thought she did, in the way most high school students assume they know people. Without really looking beyond the surface. It's the same thing everyone's always done with her, never looking past the raggedy clothes or the bad reputation. Emma is just a little annoyed with herself to realize she's been doing the same thing to everyone else, to Regina Blanchard and her perfect clothes and perfect grades.

She's never given a second thought to it all, too wrapped up in her own problems and preconceptions. Some part of her, if she's honest, had been angry at the brunette, for everything that she thought she had.

Looking at her now, she realizes how wrong she was. Now, she's getting a glimpse into what Regina Blanchard is like beyond the mask they all wear into school.

It's not a pretty picture. Literally.

Though she's wearing her usual way too-formal-for-school attire, it is far from its usual impeccable form. It's wrinkled, just slightly torn, maybe, and messily put on-in fact, Emma is pretty sure that pencil skirt is on _backwards_ , which is the last thing she'd ever expect to see on someone like Regina.

The rest of her looks no better.

For as long as she's known her, which is really only a year at most, admittedly, Emma has never seen her wear an expression of anything other than the utmost calm and confidence. There's no trace of that ice cold bitch here now, in this girl who looks… _shattered_ , if she's being completely honest. There are tear tracks on her cheeks, running black from her mascara and her lipstick is smeared-her lips look _bruised_ , she realizes, with a sickening jolt.

All of this is screaming signals to her brain that she just doesn't want to accept. Because her clothes aren't put on right, and her lips are bruised _and Emma is pretty sure those that is a bitemark on her collarbone, peeking out of her shirt._

(She _remembers_ , hands and teeth and a space too tight and too hot, and just too much-)

Emma gasps aloud, and shakes, badly, jolts so hard that her hand scrambles for purchase on the wall, but she _forgets,_ and she _misses_ -her hand goes through the shower curtain instead.

She tumbles out of the shower stall in a naked tangle of limbs, and falls right atop Regina Blanchard.

The other girl screams, loud and startled and pained like a knife has just been shoved through her ribs. Despite the pain, the fresh bruises blooming on her from her fall, Emma quickly scrambles backwards, utterly terrified on so many levels.

For a long moment, Regina continues to scream, her eyes wide and blown with fear. They don't look at her, not really, and Emma wonders, heart clenching, what she is seeing ( _she doesn't have to wonder, not really_ ). Her hand hovers in the air, useless. She tries to think about what she would want, but her brain is still too tangled up in trying to banish all her skeletons back into her closet ( _the malicious glint in those eyes, the hot breath against her neck, that feeling of suffocation, of drowning-_ )

Eventually, she succeeds enough to focus on what is actually happening, but the noise doesn't dissipate because Regina is still screaming. Eyes wide, Emma reacts instinctively, springing forward to cover the girl's mouth and try to muffle the noise. _She can't get caught,_ she thinks desperately, selfishly, _she can't._ Regina flinches hard, trying to break free, but quiets almost immediately, like a radio with its plug pulled out. Her breath is hot against her palm, and she quickly pulls it away as though stung. The brunette doesn't start screaming again, thankfully, though her eyes continue to look glazed and faraway.

Incredibly, no one seems to be have been drawn by the noise, and the blonde allows herself to relax by a tiny fraction at the thought that they haven't been found out, not yet. But now, her stomach in knots, as the enormity of the situation she is currently in sinks in. Emma can see, now that she looks, that in the fall, Regina's skirt has ridden up high enough she can see _bruises_ on her thighs. _In the shape of hand prints._ Bile rises in her throat, because she doesn't want to see this, doesn't want to see _Regina_ like this.

 _What is she supposed to do?_ Emma feels helpless and lost, more than ever, and that's saying something considering the state of her life. In the end, she does what she always does, and blurts out without thought, "Are you alright?"

The sound of her voice seems to bounce against the tiled walls, somehow still too loud in the echo of the screaming. Emma cringes, feeling like an idiot. Of course she isn't alright. It is a pointless question that she already knows the answer to, Even so, the words, or just the sound of her voice, seems to jolt the other girl out of whatever hell she is trapped in.

Regina blinks, and those dark eyes finally seem to focus on the world around her. Slowly, she turns and registers Emma's presence, eyes raking down her form and making the blonde abruptly aware of her nakedness. Flushing, she awkwardly tries to cover herself with her hands, debating if she should go rush for her towel and clothes, but wary of startling the girl in front of her, who still looks entirely too jumpy and vulnerable, so far away from the cold hard shell she's always seen.

" _W-what-_ "

The voice comes out rough and scratchy, with a stutter that is so out of character the blonde wonders if it came from her out all. Regina stops, falls silent again, looking frustrated for a moment before she visibly steels herself. Emma can practically see the mask being fitted into place, piece by piece.

When the other girl speaks again, it is with the cold, hard tone she is far more familiar with. "What are you doing here, Ms. Swan?"

Though she is expecting it, Emma almost startles at being addressed again, especially by the ridiculously formal way it's done. That's the way Regina Blanchard addresses everybody, she abruptly remembers, like she's an eighty year old woman or a woman from the 1800s. Emma wonders if it's a rich person thing, or specifically a Regina thing. Either way, it's always been a ridiculous habit for a seventeen-year-old but it's even more absurd now, with Regina looking like she just came off a horror movie and Emma naked and still soapy from her shower.

Regina seems to realize it too, if the way she bites at her lip (it's _bruised_ , she can't help but notice again) means anything, but she does not say anything more, so the blonde manages to answer, about as eloquently as always, "Uh, shower."

As she speaks, she gestures vaguely at the still damp stall she'd fallen out from, and then her own nakedness, which makes her blush again in self-consciousness. It nearly makes her miss the flinch from Regina and the way those eyes linger at the curve of her breast and hips. But she doesn't, and she flushes even more under the scrutiny, feeling even more confused about what is happening and how she is feeling. Still, seeing that the other girl has at least managed to find some form of composure, however fake, she takes it as an opportunity to stop being naked.

Emma quickly stands up, wincing briefly in pain, as the bruises from her fall protest. But she ignores it from the kind of ease borne from practice, immediately heading for the small pile of clothes and the towel she left on the bench closest to the shower. Highly aware of the eyes on her, Emma towels off the lingering wetness and soap with quick, rough movements, before she shucks on her clothes with similarly lightning speed. Thankfully, being a foster kid has given her great advantage in speed dressing so she is soon dressed in her ratty band t-shirt and even rattier jeans again, her wet hair the only sign of her previous state.

When she turns back to Regina, she sees that the other girl has picked herself up from the ground. Emma wants to slap herself for being an idiot and not offering to help-but would she have even accepted it? She remembers the way she had flinched, remembers the Regina Blanchard who stood proud and unyielding and never accepted help from anyone. Somehow, she thinks, even after what she's seen, that girl is still inside her, or in the cold hard shell she wears, at least. The brunette has managed to fix her clothes some too, so the little tells are less obvious and though she can still spy tear tracks, the mascara is cleaned off.

Clearly, Emma is not the only one practiced at speed dressing. Her stomach clenches at this, at what this means. Though she doesn't want to connect the dots, the answers come anyway. This is not the first time this has happened to Regina. The realization makes the room swirl for a moment. Emma has to ask. She swallows, before she starts to say, " _Who-?_ "

" _Don't_." Regina tells her, hard, but there's a tremble underneath. Her eyes are dark and shadowed, and Emma thinks she could drown in them, in the pain so much like her own.

Emma wants to say so many things. _I can help. I understand. You're not alone._ All of them die on her tongue before she even opens her mouth. In the end, all she can do is ask, uselessly, stupidly, "What are you doing here?"

Maybe she means it in more way than one, because it's a loaded question, really. Or maybe she can only echo because she wants to let Regina handle this conversation (she cannot bear to take more power from her). Whatever the reason, it's what comes out of her mouth and now she can only deal with it's fall-out.

Mostly, it seems to be Regina staring wide-eyed at her, briefly looking like a deer in the headlights, an expression that looks almost comical on her, when considering her typical stern demeanor. But it is gone in a flash, and her cold mask returns as she replies, bitingly, "Showering."

Emma's brows furrow at this answer, wondering if it is a serious or sarcastic one. But the faint tremble she cannot fully hide, the memory of her looking shattered that is still imprinted on her mind (the _screaming_ , gods), all of it makes her think this is true. Looking at the briefcase she holds in one trembling hand (no plebeian backpacks for Regina Blanchard), she doubts there is anything like a towel or a change of clothes though. True, but unplanned, it seems. This is the same girl she has seen with a day planner marked in ten different colours, whose every minute, every move is calculated and thought out in advance. Impulsive and stupid acts might be Emma's bread and butter, but it is not Regina's. The admission is worrying, if it's true, which she is almost certain is so.

"Without a towel or change of clothes." It's a statement not a question, and Regina tenses, but does not say anything more. Even though Emma already suspects the answer, she cannot help but ask, "Why?"

This seems to be what makes Regina snap, because her eyes blaze with fire, as she returns the question pointedly, "Why are _you_ showering here?"

There is a knowing look in those dark eyes, that tell Emma she is not the only one who has seen through a mask and connected the dots. The implications make her wince, and she knows she is caught, that they are at a stalemate with their secrets and sins. Emma has just as much to lose here, more really, because she cannot afford to have this get back to the school, and to her social worker. She does not want to be moved again, to yet another shitty foster family, or even shitter group home. Worse, her breaking and entering the school will probably land her in juvie combined with her previous bad record. The smart thing to do would be to call a truce and promise to never speak of this again.

But Emma has never been very smart, and she also knows that some things are more important, so she admits, in a rush, "I've been sleeping under the bleachers every night for the past three months, after I ran from my latest foster home."

She doesn't expand on _why_ , because that's something she still can't talk about, not even to Regina (she can't bear to think of it at all, and she just wants to _forget_ ). Shaking her head, she adds quietly, "Then, I sneak in every morning to take a shower before class."

In for penny, in for a pound, she thinks, with a certain reckless resignation. Though the blonde has never told anyone these things, has never had anyone to tell, really, she finds it is easier than she thought to say it all.

Whatever Regina expects in response to her thinly veiled threat, it is clearly not this. She has looks at Emma like she has never seen her, utterly bowled over by this confession. Or rather, by what it means. She doesn't think the actual contents are much of a surprise. The brunette can connect the dots just as well as she can, probably better, if all those straight _As_ mean anything. What truly startles her is what she is actually trying to say, in telling the truth. _Quid pro quo._

The mask doesn't slide back into place so quickly this time. When they lock eyes again, Emma sees those dark eyes assessing her more blatantly this time. The blonde stares back, wordlessly trying to convey her plea. _A truth for a truth._ In the silence, a moment of understanding seems to pass between them.

Finally, Regina opens her mouth, briefly swallowing before she admits quietly, "I need to get _him_ off my skin." She shudders slightly, eyes darkening as she explains stiltedly, "He… _surprised_ me this morning. When I got to school early, he was waiting for me at the parking lot."

Emma wants desperately to ask who _he_ is, but she knows she won't get an answer, that to interrupt now will halt what few admissions are spilling out, will make the wall that has been briefly brought down spring up again. What's inside is dark enough to make her skin crawl, to throw her back into all the skeletons in dark closets, but Emma holds firm, holds herself up because there's someone in front of her who needs her more.

"I have a copy of the locker room key as captain of the varsity volleyball team." Regina explains, in answer to a question hadn't even thought of, but now that she mentions it, the blonde remembers that she had locked the door after sneaking in. "This early, I didn't think anyone would be here. Clearly, I was wrong."

There's a small twitch to her lips, like this is all a joke, but there's no humor in her eyes or in anything in this situation, really. They are just two girls in shitty situations who have run into each other in a terrible time. If it's anything, it's proof that God or Fate or whoever is running the show has a shitty sense of humor. Considering the shit show her life's been so far, Emma is not surprised.

After their revelations to each other, the silence that follows feels lighter and weightier at once. No matter what the shrinks she's been sent to say, Emma doesn't really think "talking about it" actually helps anyone or anything all, but maybe that's only because she's been talking to the wrong people. Talking to someone who _understands_ , even a little bit, makes her feel abruptly less alone. On the other hand, it also makes her realize that there are other people involved now, and she no longer has total control over what to do. Of course, Regina didn't seem to get the same memo.

"You can't tell anyone," The brunette orders her firmly, her typical hard imperious tone returning with a vengeance, and Emma would feel like a scolded i competent teacher if it weren't for the fact that those dark eyes have a shine of panic that belie her calm demeanor. At her continued silence, Regina barks, "I need your word, Ms. Swan."

The instinct to keep this encounter and any accompanying revelations, between them, is perfectly understandable, and Emma knows better than most about the need for secrets, but still, she hesitates. The right thing to do, would be to tell a "responsible adult", right? She might not have much trust in the system herself, considering her own experiences with it, but surely, it would do better by Regina?

It's a heavy question, and a dilemma she clearly does not have time to ponder further, because Regina has taken her silence as a refusal and now she is walking towards her, stopping only when she is close enough that she can the lighter flecks in those warm brown eyes that are currently sparking with fury and barely controlled desperation. Brows drawn tightly, she hisses out threateningly, " _You will not tell anyone of this, or I will make you life a living hell!_ "

 _Been there, done that_ , Emma thinks dryly, with a strangely distant calm. Normally threats make her hackles rise immediately, make her blood boil and want to throw punches, but it is too easy to see the fear buried in the fury here, and it is that, not any futile threat, which makes her finally say, softly, "I promise, yes. This is all just between us."

The concession immediately causes a flood of relief to cross the other girl's face, before it is hastily covered up and the mask is slid back into place. Emma feels like she should say more still, or try to do something about all this. But she is keenly aware of how little she can actually do or say that would help at all, so in the end, she doesn't say anything more.

Regina doesn't say anything more either, seemingly satisfied with the response she's garnered, though she is looking at Emma as though trying to see the lie. Eventually, she seems to find what she's looking for, and she abruptly backs away again, quickly enough that Emma might've been insulted in other circumstances. This time, the resulting silence seems more awkward than anything. They've both said their piece, and all that's left are questions that neither of them are currently willing to answer.

So, suddenly remembering where they are and what they're actually supposed to do, Emma takes action. She moves closer, aware of the way Regina suddenly jolts in response, the minute trembles when she is close enough to touch. It's more than just surprise, and the flash of fear she sees makes her heart pound. Some part of her is tempted, wants to try to comfort and soothe, convey what she cannot hope to say out loud. But she knows it would be a mistake to do so.

Instead, Emma moves past her, to where she has hidden her backpack in a corner. Mechanically, she stuffs her damp towel back inside it, not even bothering to roll it back up or place it somewhere away from her books. Finally, she rises again, wonders at what to say or do. Regina is still looking at her, warily. It might be a mistake, but Emma cannot bear to leave her without doing or saying anything more. She moves towards the other girl again, and places a towel in her hand. It's a little ratty and slightly smaller than the one she used, but it is dry and clean.

Though Emma cannot really afford it, because she really does only have these two towels, she still says, "Keep it." Kindness has not been much of a feature in Emma's life, but that only makes the few instances of it stand out more, and she knows, better than most, how much the small kindnesses can _matter_.

The other girl doesn't say anything in response, but her eyes widen, and she takes the towel in her hands, with just the slightest of trembles. For a moment, she opens her mouth, but nothing comes out, and she quickly shuts it again.

Emma doesn't wait for more, and she takes this opportunity to leave, backpack already shouldered. Though she is so very tempted to, she doesn't turn her back once. Even then, she can't quite shake the image of Regina Blanchard and everything that just happened from her mind's eye.


	2. Chapter 2

Though part of Emma wants to, she doesn't linger outside the locker room for long. Dimly, she thinks she can hear the sound of rushing water, but she can't be sure. All she knows is, she needs to get away now, not least because she has no idea how much time she's actually spent on her encounter with Regina. But when she tries to look down at her watch, the numbers look blurry, and she feels weary and tired. All Emma wants to do is curl up on a warm bed and cry, or even scream, into her pillow. She wants to go back inside and take a long shower, maybe try to recapture that brief feeling of blank bliss.

But she _can't_.

-o-

The spray of water on her skin is soothing. Though Regina winces slightly when the force of it hits her sensitive bruised areas, she almost relishes in the pain. It jolts her into awareness, grounds her into reality. She is _safe_ , she is _fine_ , it tells her. At least for now, she thinks, and tries not to shudder, because thinking about the future is like a black hole waiting for her, and she cannot afford to get sucked in. Not _now_ , not _here_.

( _He'll be waiting for her, and he'll touch her_ again _, with his large careless hands over her all her bruises. It will happen_ again _, and she will be_ helpless _to stop it and he will_ never _stop-_ )

It is so very weak of her, she knows, but she cannot stop the tears from falling. Under the shower's spray, it is easy to imagine it is only its water flowing down her cheeks. It is easy too, for her sobs to get lost under the din of the water hitting the floor.

Her knees buckle under the weight of it all, and she curls into a ball on the ground, desperately releasing all the stress and pain and tension in one go. A ragged scream escapes from her throat, one that echoes across the walls despite the noise. Regina muffles herself with her hand on instinct, and cries harder because of it.

( _Shh… hush now, quiet now. You wouldn't want anyone else to hear, do you? Now listen to me and be a good girl-_ )

-o-

Eventually, Emma forces her legs to walk _away_ , barely aware of where she's headed, and all too aware of the muffled sounds she swears she can hear from behind the locker room doors. Finally, she reaches a deserted corridor filled with lockers and classrooms. The lack of people means that she's got some time at least, she notes dimly.

Almost mechanically, she takes advantage of this fact by dipping into the first open bathroom she comes across and locking the doors. Heading straight for the sinks, she splashes some water on her face, and releases a soft sob in the midst of the stream. There's a tight knot of tension inside her still, that relaxes minutely at this.

When she looks up from the swirl of water disappearing into the drain, she sees her face looking worn beyond their seventeen years. The circles beneath her eyes stand out even more against her pale wan skin, shining with water. Her stringy blonde hair is still damp too, and dripping onto the counter. Frankly, she looks terrible, and a choked humorless laugh slips out from her as she imagines how Regina must have seen her. Of course, this only reminds her about how terrible the other girl looked. _What a fucking pair we are,_ she thinks bitterly.

It is a little funny, she thinks, considering everything she knew about Regina Blanchard before today. What were opposites but two different sides of the same mirror, it turned out? The orphan from the wrong side of the tracks, and the mayor's daughter... it sounds like such a terrible cliche, the kind from a cheap Harlequin novel.

Her mind flashes to soft, dark hair and fierce brown eyes, to past fantasies involving those dark red lips. She would be lying to herself if she says she has never thought about it. Regina might've been an ice queen bitch, but she's been a physically attractive one, and Emma is a hormonal teenager. At least, she has been subtle in her eying, though perhaps not enough considering the rumors swirling about her sexuality. Still, she manages better than most of their male classmates, who certainly make no attempt to hide their lustful looks.

The thought of those eyes on her, after what she's seen today…

Emma clenches her fists and has to restrain the fierce urge to punch a wall. Thinking guiltily of her own fantasies, after what she's seen today, she's not sure she can ever imagine Regina Blanchard naked and willingly on her knees without feeling nauseous ever again.

She still doesn't know who _he_ is, and he could be a student for all she knows. Despite her bitchy exterior and reputation, Regina certainly has her share of admirers and outright stalkers.

Frowning, she thinks about one particular boy, a football player, Robin Locksley, who had been trying to to get her to be his girlfriend for some time now. Had he decided to take matters into his own hands, and take her regardless of her answer? Though he is known for being a "good guy", she certainly has her doubts about that. Experience has taught Emma that the world is not so black and white. Still, she is not sure he is capable of what she suspects.

Thinking on it more, her thoughts turn to Sidney Glass next. The boy is a reporter on the school paper who has the most obvious crush on Regina. He often follows her around like a lovesick puppy, and practically begs to be ordered around. Considering his submissive personality, Emma wonders, but she also knows how easily people can snap. Perhaps Sidney had finally had enough of being "strung along" and decided to take what he thought was "owed"?

Neither narrative quite fits, and she feels like a sick parody of a cartoon detective trying to solve this horrifying mystery. Emma stares at her own reflection, searching through her memories, but finds no answers anywhere. The blonde doesn't even know how to even begin unravelling the identity of Regina's attacker, let alone how to actually do anything about it, and she feels a wave of helplessness wash over her once more. She wants, _needs_ , to do something to help Regina.

-o-

 _I should be used to it by now_ , Regina thinks. The pain, the humiliation, the _dirtiness_ , none of it is new to her ( _shouldn't she be numb to this by now?_ ). He has been doing this for so long that the days have begun to blend together, she's not even sure she can piece together when anything actually occurred.

Even so, this was the first time it happened _here_. Regina did not think there were still any _firsts_ left for him to take from her, any safe spaces left to taint and smother with his ghost. But clearly, she was still a naive little fool. Another thing she thought she'd left behind, she thinks bitterly, as she recalls a young girl who'd once so easily swallowed his lies.

( _Now, he makes me swallow other things-)_

A shudder of revulsion passing through her, and bile rises in her throat as she desperately tries to wash the taste of him out of her mouth. There are other, bitter pills, she's had to take, as the realization that there was no one to help her, to stop it. There is no prince in shining armor, not even some kind-faced policeman, coming to save her from her daily hell.

( _Once, there was Daniel Colter, whose kind eyes and gentle hands helped her find a light. But all too soon, it was snuffed out and, his kind eyes were dull and glassy, his gentle hands cold to the touch-_ )

Now, there is Emma Swan. The thought of her blonde classmate makes a rough, slightly hysterical laugh pass through her lips. It is her towel she is using to wipe herself dry right now. The fabric is a little rough and worn, far from the expensive Egyptian cotton blend she was used to at home. But it's warm and soothing and when she thinks about how the blonde must have used it herself at some point…

Her cheeks redden at the strangely intimate image.

( _What a joke it is, that she can still blush in embarrassment at this, when less than ten minutes ago she was on her knees and-_ )

Regina chokes, bile rising, and she has just enough control to expel the sickly substance straight over the shower drain. The remains of her breakfast stare up at her, not quite going down the small hole, as the spray of water mixes into something even more noxious-looking. It makes her queasy again, and before she knows it, she's leaning over again, dry heaving. There's nothing left of her breakfast to give, it seems, except for a small trail of sickly bile. Her fingers twitch against the cold slippery tile, and she has to resist the urge to shove it down her throat. She wants to expel her entire being, until she feels something like clean again.

The water slides against her skin, harsh and freezing, but she feels nothing. She's numb and shaky with things that have nothing to do with cold. Closing her eyes, she releases a shaky breath that morphs in a sharp, bitter laugh. It echoes against the tile walls and rings in her ears, exacerbating the throbbing in her head and making tears well up once more.

-o-

The bell rings at some point, though Emma barely hears it. It's not until someone starts banging loudly against the bathroom door that she jolts enough to break away from thoughts. Even then, it feels like an out-of-body experience, when she moves to unlock the door. Some girl she vaguely recognizes has a glare on her face that quickly morphs into one of shock and faint fear when she gets a good look at Emma. Clearly, her reputation has preceded her again. She feels a prickle of irritation at this, and rolls her eyes, shoving past the other girl back into the hall. There's a startled squeak which she ignores, though the sound makes her think of Regina once again.

It some ways it is hard to imagine the cold, stubborn girl cowering in fear, but in other ways, it is all too easy, as she remembers the scream of abject terror she has been subjected to in the locker room. Clenching her fists, Emma tries hard to banish the thoughts away for now, as she is back in a crowded hallway, where the eyes of a dozen teenagers are interestedly eying her. Not in the mood for this, the blonde sends some glares at the more obvious parties that have them quickly looking away. Thankfully, this seems to encourage everyone else, and Emma manages to make her way to her first class without much incident.

Sliding into her usual seat just as the teacher comes in, Emma tries to pay attention to the lesson, if only because the train of the thoughts do not have a pleasant destination or journey. But math is a chore on the best of days, and her mind quickly wanders. Her AP English class is two periods away still. It's the one class she shares with Regina, and unless they run into each other in the hallway before then, it will be the only time she sees her. The blonde feels a bubble of anxiety as she imagines this meeting. No doubt the brunette will act like nothing is different, and Emma must do the same.

-o-

Eventually, Regina manages to cobble up enough pieces of herself to make herself vaguely whole. Or, enough to shut the freezing cold water and exit the shower stall, at least. Even though part of her just wants to lie in it forever, she is aware, all too clearly, that she is running on borrowed time. Someone else could come in at any second, and it won't be just Emma Swan.

So, with a rising sense of urgency, for the first time, the brunette stands on slightly shaky legs. She carefully uses the towel Emma Swan gave her to dry herself off, gingerly avoiding pressing too hard her bruises and wincing when her attempts fail miserably.

Once she is mostly dry, she wraps the towel around her hair, and releases a small sigh. The shower helped, some, but she is still too raw, and in too much pain, to think clearly, let alone act like the picture of perfection she needs to uphold towards the rest of the school.

She's not supposed to take more yet, but this is an emergency and exactly why she keeps a tiny stash with her at all times just in case. On trembling legs, Regina knees down to pick through her briefcase, taking out a tiny case of mints that opens to reveal even tinier pieces of coloured pills that are clearly not mints at all. There's a brief moment of hesitation, before the brunette picks an orange circular pill and places it on her tongue. She dry swallows it, practice allowing her to overcome the painful scrape of it against her raw throat with barely a wince.

It takes a few moments, but the fog in her head starts to clear, and though her heart still races, it doesn't fill her with fear, but alertness. With the adrenalin suddenly surging through her veins, Regina feels ready to face the world again.

-o-

Even though Emma resolves to stop thinking about Regina, her thoughts betray her. As she tables the mystery on who he is supposed to be, she has to ask the next question. What will she do if (when) she finds out? She knows, of course, what the right answer is. It's the one shown in all PSAs and after-school specials, after all. According to the right thing to do in this scenario is to "tell a responsible adult". But, it's not that simple.

More than anyone, she knows how useless telling someone anything would be. Emma's been a veteran of many an abusive home, and nine times out of ten, no one did anything when she managed to gather enough courage to speak up or just accidentally let something slip. Most of the time, they just didn't believe her, not with her track record and reputation, and they sent her back to whatever hellhole she came from with a slap on the wrist or a stupid condescending lecture. Sometimes, it got back to the foster parents and it got even worse. Eventually, she would get moved for some reason or another, and it would all be a non-factor.

So, Emma knows that telling an adult is hardly the cure-all it's advertised as, and the police haven't exactly showed themselves to be a paragon of justice (even if she's been in the station more as perp than victim at this point, she'll never forget being that stupid, innocent kid who'd gone in scared but hopeful and come out only scared).

But this has all been her personal experience, as just another poor nameless orphan stuck in the system with no one to care for her, and no future prospects to speak of. Emma knows, that in the grand scheme of things, to most of society, she's _nothing_. It should be different, shouldn't it, for someone like Regina? No matter what you say about her, she's definitely _something_. The brunette is top of their class, the student body president, and a shoe-in for valedictorian. More than that, she is the mayor's daughter, the heir of a rich and powerful family. Of course, Emma considers, that might be the problem.

Seeing as they're hardly even acquaintances, let alone friends, Emma has no clue what the other girl's home life is like. She only knows the facts as everyone else does:

Her mother is Cora Mills-Blanchard, who owns a mining company of some sort, inherited from her ex-husband. Her stepfather is the mayor, Leopold Blanchard. She has a younger step-sister, Mary Margaret Blanchard, who is studying in the associated middle school a few blocks over.

Always with one ear pressed to the ground, she knows some rumours too. Cora Blanchard is a heartless bitch who married her new husband not three months after her ex-husband was laid to rest. Leopold Blanchard was an old widower whose first wife was just as beloved by the local town as he is. Mary Margaret is as sweet as Regina is fierce, apparently, and cares more about fluffy bunnies and pink dresses than intimidating the student body into submission like her older sister.

None of it is enough to tell her what she should do, or who she should tell. Emma could hardly just walk up to the mayor or his wife and tell them her suspicions about Regina, not without proof, not without knowing they'll actually help. While the part of Emma that has always dreamed of them wants to think that all parents love their children, she's met more than enough proof that isn't true. Foster care isn't just for abandoned orphans, after all.

Their ice cold, combative class president doesn't exactly scream happy, healthy, well-adjusted girl, even without what she saw to further shatter the image of perfection. While it doesn't necessarily mean anything is wrong at home, Emma has a bad feeling about it. Over the years, she's learned to trust her gut instinct, because it is rarely wrong. Though, in this, she wishes she was, because she wouldn't wish this on _anyone_.

-o-

Before Regina can actually face anyone, she needs to actually put some clothes on. Placing the borrowed towel on one of the benches, she works on putting today's chosen ensemble back on.

The brunette straps her bra back on first, being extra careful around the injured areas, keeping it on its loosest hook in a vain attempt not to exacerbate her pain. Part of the lace has been torn off, and the memory of how it happened makes her chest tighten, which only makes her pain worse.

Even so, it's not until Regina grabs the matching lacy panties that she freezes up. There's a larger rip here, and the telltale stains make her want to just throw the thing in the bin and be done with it. But the idea of going around all day without any panties on at all makes her feel even worse. So, swallowing hard, she shoves her all too shaky legs into the proper holes and tries to ignore any unpleasant sticky sensation.

Eager to get her mind off it, she swiftly picks up her pencil skirt. There's a small tear here too, though thankfully it's not very noticeable. It can be easily explained by a stray hook or pin somewhere getting caught on the fabric, at least. Shimmying into the tight skirt, she zips it up mechanically before she shucks her blouse on next and starts on the buttons, one of which has been nearly pulled off. It's the top one too, unsurprisingly. Regina bites her lip and wonders how likely it is to come loose on her. Considering her fantastic luck, she highly doubts she will last the day. Still, without any other choice, she is forced to hope blindly anyway (as if that has _ever_ worked in her favor), and perhaps try to come up with a better solution later on.

The white blouse and pencil skirt feel tight and restricting on her, and she is all too keenly aware of the scent of his cologne imprinted on the fabric. It makes her gag, and she tries valiantly not to tear up again, because her next order of business is fixing her make-up. Grabbing her kit from her bag, she heads to the sinks, where she takes her first good look at herself and flinches at her reflection.

It's not a pretty sight. Though the shower has washed off the tracks from her mascara and her smeared lipstick, her bare face looks worn and haggard. There are clear bags under her eyes, typically hidden under careful layers of concealer, that betray all her sleepless nights. Her usual olive-toned skin is washed out and pale from stress, only broken up by a faint purpling on her right cheek, where he had struck her, and her lips, which are red and bruised. It's not a pretty sight, but it's not an unusual one.

This is the same sad sight Regina sees when she wakes up on all too many days, and the familiarity makes it easy for her to look with an objective eye. She'll need concealer for those bags, foundation and bronzer for the bruise and more mascara for her eyes, she thinks, before her gaze drift downwards next. The rest of her looks marginally better so she does not have to do as much work here. Her clothes are put on right now, at least. Working off her reflection, she carefully hides any bruises or bite marks from sight that she can, adjusting her clothing best as she can. They still show if she moves wrongly though, so she will have to cover them with makeup too, She has her blazer which she'll shrug on once she leaves, whose long sleeves will cover the marks on her arm if she doesn't have enough time to work on those.

Taking a deep breath, Regina looks herself in the mirror, before she grabs her supplies and begins the process of putting herself back together. Putting on makeup is a meticulous yet mindless task, and she loses herself in the act of laying down lines and drawing up her war paint. Once she is finished, she looks almost as impeccable as always. Close observation will show more than a few cracks, because makeup is incredible, but not a miracle worker. Even so, she is confident no one will so closely as her.

( _No one ever has before. All they see is the outside, the shiny mask she shows the world. If they ever notice something is wrong, isn't quite right, they never say a word. Sometimes, it's enough to make Regina believe too-_ )

Regina cracks a smile. Despite her efforts, it still looks too sharp, too strained, and her lips ache with the effort to hold the position. The pills help with the pain, blunting it so it's bearable, but it's not gone. Even so, she manages it, and then, she paints her lips just a little redder, to hide the blood from the wounds he's given her. She thinks, sometimes, if she smiles enough, if she believes enough, she might actually be alright.


	3. Chapter 3

When Regina finally walks out the locker room doors, it's with her back straight, her walk steady, and her imperious mask locked firmly in place. It's quite a transformation from the broken girl who had first walked in through those doors. Anyone looking at her now would have no clue anything was wrong at all.

Of course, right now, there isn't anyone looking at all, because despite her best attempts to be quick about it, she's still taken too long in the locker room, and the bell for first period rang about fifteen minutes ago, by her best estimate.

The idea of being late, of being caught doing something out of bounds from her carefully crafted image as Regina Blanchard, sends a fissure of anxiety running through her composure. Heart pounding a little too hard, she has to forcefully beat the rising sense of panic down, walking just a little faster through the empty halls to the classroom. If she allows herself to slip up even the tiniest bit right now, she knows she will _fall apart_.

Adderall has the much needed effect of making her alert and energized, enough to allow her to keep up her grades and her facade but it also has the effect of making her _too_ alert. Every little detail seems magnified in her mind, and it's _not_ a good thing.

The single pill she's taken isn't enough to give her a full-blown panic attack every two minutes ( _like it did the_ one _horrible time she'd accidentally taken far too much in desperatio_ n) but it gives her this bubbling tension hiding just underneath the surface, that breaks out at the most unexpected moments, at every terrible reminder, which in some ways maybe be even _worse_ , when she thinks about it.

She is all too aware of the slightly rumpled and torn state of her clothing, as it rubs against her sensitive skin and there's the faint throbbing from all the purpling bruises buried under the makeup have only just been made bearable by the drug.

( _Worst of all, every step makes her ever more aware of the sickly_ stickiness _left on her torn_ panties _-_ )

 _Breathe_ , she tell herself forcefully. The word is for more than just a stupid calming exercise, it's a reminder, that, even after everything, she's somehow managed to _survive_.

 _(There are moments, all too many, where she wishes she_ wouldn't _. Regina propels herself through the hours and the days with the visions of a life far away and free from her past and present, but, she's so_ tired _, and she just wants to_ rest _, wants it all to_ end _-_ - _)_

Regina resists the urge to fall to her knees, and walks even faster, heels clocking loudly on the tiled floors, as her nails dig hard enough into her palms to draw blood. The pain grounds her, gives her something other than an endless pit of despair to focus on, and she welcomes it.

-o-

Somehow, someway, in a haze of a walk she can only dimly recall, Regina makes it to the designated classroom for her first class. _AP Physics,_ she recalls belatedly, as she glimpses the face of the middle-aged woman who teaches this class.

A small rush of relief floods through her as she realizes this will be easier than expected. Most people in this subpar institution are cowed by her, or her family name. This mousy woman of a teacher even more than most. Finding some measure of comfort from this fact, she finds calm a little easier to find as she places her hand on the knob.

Though Regina enters from the door in the back, silent as can be save for the faint whoosh of the door swing, the class still stutters to a stop when she enters.

Everyone, even the teacher, stops and stares for a long moment, and time seems endless in that one instant, as she struggles to keep her emotions from overflowing out to the mask of careful indifference she wears.

All the eyes on her make her skin crawl, and Regina feels a stupid prickle of insecurity as she wonders what they see. If it is the same caricature they have long painted her as, or if they see the cracks she is unable to properly fill in her armour.

The latter thought is enough to make her heart skip a beat, but a second look shows the other students looking at her with the same mingled look of fear and awe they always wear, only coupled with a dash of curiosity for the fact that she's arrived late for once.

Still, even if the lateness is unusual, the attention on her is not. As always, when Regina walks into the classroom, all eyes briefly turn towards her. The attention makes her back straighten even further, makes her skin crawl and her throat close, but she's used to it, used to this.

Regina is hardly deaf or blind to her reputation amongst the student population here. Even the faculty and staff seem wary and tiptoe around her. It's not all just because of her last name either. Once, a long time ago, the brunette had been the type of girl who'd wanted friends, who'd been bright and warm and made those friends with ease.

But that was a lifetime ago, and that girl was long gone. In it's place was the husk of a shell she had left, the armour she wore to keep everyone else at bay. _The Evil Queen_ , she's heard one intrepid fairytale fan of a student call her in a whisper, and it's caught like wildfire. It's less vulgar than the other nicknames, at least. _Bitch. Ice Queen._ Regina's heard it all before.

( _It's better than being called weak, whore,_ victim _-_ )

Her mask is firmly in place now, and while she might look a little more disheveled, a little less perfect than usual, her gaze is as cold and disinterested as always, when she sweeps briefly over the other students and the teacher that has stopped mid-lecture.

As her eyes lock with the older woman, she seems to regain herself, only to hesitate. Clearly, she wants to address Regina's lateness, but as expected, she is easily intimidated into keeping silence by the expression on the student's face. Instead, the teacher quickly continues on with the lecture, with only a brief stutter to betray her nerves.

The action makes the rest of the class turn their eyes back to the board, and the brunette is thankful that she is in all AP classes, because it at least means that everyone here at least pretends to care about their grades over high school gossip. Regina's ears are sharp enough to pick up the chatter centered around her atypical lateness still, though when she glances in the direction of the gossips, they are quick to break off and look down on their notes.

 _Close enough,_ she thinks with a familiar resignation. Taking advantage of this brief pretence of privacy, the brunette takes a seat near the back instead of her customary one in the front row since as it's full. Considering her current less than stable state, it's probably for the best. This way it's at least harder and more obvious for people to stare at her.

Once she's seated, she takes out her binder and begins dutifully taking notes of the lesson, completing the usual tableau at this hour, all the better to cool off any rumors about her unusual lateness.

But for however much she is the picture of concentration, the truth is the exact opposite. Pure instinct allows her to _pretend_ and do it well enough that, as with all aspects of her life, no one will any wiser to the truth. It helps, that the lesson is one she already knows, in far greater depth than this useless woman in front of her, honestly. Normally, she might add her own additions and addendums to make her notes more comprehensive. Today, she can barely keep her mind on the words being spoken, let alone recall her own expansive knowledge on the topic.

Though she tries to put the entire horrific morning out of her mind, Regina cannot stop thinking about it all. She can feel eyes on her, and it makes her itch more than usual, after the hellish morning she's had. Even though she's forcing her breathing into a calm, even pattern, she can't calm her trembling heart or the slight shake of her hand that makes her typical neat script uneven.

Casting wildly about for something that will not send her reeling into a flashback that will destroy all her carefully laid plans, she somehow ends up landing on Emma Swan.

-o-

It turns out to be the perfect distraction for her wildly spinning mind (a state not helped by the drug currently pumping through her system), as she begins to piece everything she knows about Emma Swan and considers just exactly what to do with her.

The truth is, Regina has spared little thought for the school delinquent before this morning, having too much on her plate to bother with some girl she barely knew or saw. Even so, the brunette is not blind or unaware of her surroundings.

Of course, she notices the occasional looks sent in her direction, that certainly confirmed to her the rumours about the girl's sexuality were true. Oh, they were a bit more subtle than most, but still all too obvious nonetheless. It didn't make her feel half as uncomfortable as other similar gazes on her though.

If she were completely honest with herself, she could admit to looking back, once or twice. Though Emma Swan wears hideous clothes and never seems to take care for her appearance, she is still _beautiful_ , and some tiny part of Regina that isn't broken of such sentiments still appreciates that.

( _A vision of pale_ wet _skin flashes before her her mind, and she very_ deliberately _forces it away, because even without the ugly, sticky_ context _, it's not an image she can handle at the moment, or maybe ever, because she_ is _too broken for_ that _-)_

Perhaps that last name of hers is not such a misnomer after all, because despite the girl's troubled background, the rough, ragged clothing, she has such smooth pale skin and long golden locks. Sometimes, she thinks the other girl could easily be a princess instead of a pauper, and lets her mind wander, conjuring up the vision from the storybooks.

Regina wonders, a little hysterically, if they might've switched lives. Though they're living in modern times now and it shouldn't matter, she is all too aware of how her skin is never quite light enough for mother's standards and how she is forced to hide her ( _real_ ) father's language in the deepest recesses of her heart and the dark corners of her mind until they are all but forgotten on her tongue.

The thought of her poor Henry Mills sends a hollow pang ringing across her heart. It's been years now, but the weight of grief continues to press upon her. She misses him dearly, more than ever, in her current circumstances. Though she tries not to wonder, because it only ever hurts more, she cannot help but imagine a world where he is alive and well and able to wrap his arms around her in comfort at the moment.

(That man _would not be in her life at all, and that is a world Regina wishes desperately for, would do anything to be a part of-)_

 _Breathe,_ she thinks desperately, and tries to loosen her sudden death grip on the pen in her hand, before she ends up accidentally breaking it _again_. Regina doesn't need the looks, doesn't need any more rumors about her.

It's very hard to remember right now, with all the things _wrong_ so close to the surface, but she has a _plan_ , and in all honesty, it's a rather simple one too, at least on paper.

All she has to do is _survive_ this year, do incredible on her SATs, write a convincing admission letter, and get accepted into a prestigious university far away from this small town _forever_.

 _Just one more year,_ she tells herself, _and this will all be_ over _._

Regina can hold it together for that long. _After surviving for this long, what is one more year?_

There might be far too many days made of too many moments where she feels like she is one shaky breath away from cracking wide open, but she's always managed to hold herself together enough that any self-destruction is purely internal. It's probably not healthy, but it works, exceedingly well.

Her grades have continued to be exemplary, and she's been padding her resume with all the extracurricular activities possible, in as many leading positions as she can handle, including student body president, and internships at several leading companies ( _all tied to the family name, or connected in some way to Mills-Blanchard's, because she's not allowed to_ stray too far).

At this point, the path to one of the Ivys is all but guaranteed, so long as she plays her part right, and she _will,_ no matter what it takes. Because any other option is essentially guaranteed self-destruction.

Emma Swan has absolutely no part in any of these plans.

The thought of the blonde, and just what she's managed to discover in one incredibly ill-timed moment is enough to start up her panic again.

 _Merely an unexpected road bump in her grand plans,_ she assures herself. But such thoughts ring hollow though, when it's set against the crawling anxiety that won't go away.

Because Regina has never had her mask crack in front of someone before, let alone have it crumble entirely, like it has with her.

Not since _Daniel_ , and she still remembers all too well how badly that turned out ( _the light going out of his eyes, the choking_ gasp _, the soft thud of his body falling to the floor, and his skin, so_ cold _-)_

Regina closes her eyes and breathes, _in_ and _out_ , counting her heartbeats and willing the tears not to fall. Somehow, out of everything, even with all that's happened today, it's _this_ that hits her hardest of all.

( _He was always her_ weakness _, just like_ she _was his-_ -)

She can't afford to break down, not _again_ , not _now_. There is only so much her makeup can do, if she continues to ruin it.

But she feels achingly _vulnerable_ , naked and ashamed in a way that makes her nauseous and recall memories she's just barely managed to keep at bay after a long shower. Though the blonde was the one who'd actually been bare between them, Regina feels just as stripped open. It's not a pleasant feeling at all. Especially not when she is forced to conclude that she must _trust_ Emma Swan with her secrets.

This is nothing like the situation with Daniel, who'd held her in his arms after she willingly broke down her walls for him, but the comparison is a cold comfort. The blonde outcast essentially holds Regina's life in her hands, and the thought is utterly _terrifying_.

-o-

In the face of her fear, Regina does what she does best-she _plots_ and _schemes_ , guiltless in the wake of her _need_.

Though some part of her would like to just forget this entirely and deny it ever happened at all, she's already experienced firsthand exactly how pointless and painful that approach will end for her. Living in denial only means more unpleasant shocks down the line, and the brunette is thoroughly sick of surprises at this point.

Emma Swan admitted plainly to sleeping under the school bleachers and breaking into the locker rooms to take a shower every morning. Though she has no proof of this beyond the earlier confession, she knows how easy it could be to conjure up some evidence, real or otherwise. Besides, she has the ear of the principal, and her word weighs far more than outcast Emma Swan's in a direct battle.

All in all, these facts alone easily guarantee a transfer or expulsion from the school, if Regina slips it to the right sources. Her problem could easily go away, especially since Emma was likely to get shipped to a new foster home in a new town where she would have no reason to interact with Regina ever again. It is such an easy solution to her problems, and she is so very _tempted_ to do it.

 _Self-preservation trumps morality,_ always _, as human nature dictates._

But even so, part of her recalls those piercing green eyes, that soft, sad look, and she cannot help but glance towards her bag, where she still has the towel (now damp) she was handed. The temptation rises inside her and quietly dies at the sight.

She won't throw Emma Swan out to the wolves to save herself, she concludes. But that doesn't mean she cannot _threaten_ to, she thinks, and begins to plot some more, imagining her lips curving into dark sinister smile filled with promise as the blonde cringes away from her, meek and under _her_ command.

( _Because Regina is a_ terrible broken shell _of a person, thoughts like_ this _calm the racing of her heart and make her stupid terrible_ shaking _finally_ stop _-_ )

-o-

For the first time ever, Emma is ten minutes early for her AP English class. Though the subject is one of her favorites, the blonde has little desire to get saddled with a reputation as a "teacher's pet", along with her various other unflattering nicknames. She has no desire to draw more attention towards herself, and is perfectly happy being just another face in the crowd (even if, sometimes, she wishes someone would just _see_ her, she knows, by now, what a double-edged sword that is, especially when she's trying to hide secrets like hers).

Today, however, unable to keep her nervous anticipation at bay, she had given up on her pointless pacing in the hallways and just decided to enter through the damn doors, hoping perhaps Regina had the same idea and she'd show up too. But, of course, the brunette was nowhere to be found, and likely wouldn't arrive until after the bell actually rang.

A few minutes before the class is set to start, students start to pour in. Emma tries to be subtle when she checks the door, keeping a stealthy but sharp eye out for that familiar head of dark hair. As the seconds tick by, and the class grows full, while Regina has still yet to appear, she feels a prick of worry. A glance at the clock on the wall shows there's maybe five minute before class is set to begin. Their teacher is already in the room, setting up her materials for today's lesson.

Because Emma is usually the type of student to arrive late or just in the nick of time, if she is lucky, she has no idea if this is normal behaviour for the brunette or not. Still, some part of her has always assumed the other girl as the type to come to every class early. Considering how wrong her _assumptions_ have been about Regina Blanchard, she's not sure she can trust anything about her old conclusions.

Regina comes in then, half a minute before the bell rings, just in time for roll call.

For just a single moment, they lock gazes.

Those dark eyes flicker briefly, in recognition, in _fear_ , before they turn cold and hard. Regina does not say a word to her, deliberately turns her gaze away and walks just a little faster towards her seat.

Emma watches her back as she disappears into the crowd and realizes that she has her fists clenched tightly, drawing outlines of crescents on her palm. Why is she even _surprised?_

She already knew Regina would not acknowledge her or their unexpected meeting in anyway. That was what they had agreed upon, after all. It was what she wanted too.

Even so, it stings. Emma has never really sat well with being ignored. It comes with being an orphan girl constantly overlooked, with being passed over by prospective parents, with being snubbed by children on the playground because of her ill-fitting clothes. This isn't the same thing at all, she knows, but her heart has never listened to her mind before, and it still doesn't, this time.

Emma releases her fists with a frustrated sigh, and feels conflicted once more. Though she knows she should, she cannot just leave it alone, cannot leave _Regina_ alone. She needs to speak with the other girl again.

All her thoughts, her worries, her conclusions, none of it matters much if she can't talk to the girl herself. No matter how much Emma itches to act, she doesn't want to do anything without Regina's permission. The brunette deserves that much.

So, Emma's eyes continue to follow her, as she takes a seat near the back, the one farthest from the blonde, instead of her usual place up front, even though there is still one chair empty, and it stays on her, even as the lesson starts, even as it gets way too foolish of her to do so.

Seated where she is, Emma has a hard time looking at her, needing to keep craning her neck and glancing backward. It takes her too many entirely obvious tries to do it, and she quickly gains the attention of the teacher.

"Miss Swan." She calls out with a frown, looking stern, but all the blonde can hear is _Regina's_ voice calling her the same way, and it makes her flinch. "What has gotten into you?"

Caught, Emma only shrugs, unwilling and unable to give a proper explanation. She doubts the truth would be believed anyway. It never is, in her experience. Of course, her lack of a response only makes the teacher frown harder, until the blonde finally mutters, just barely resisting a roll of her eyes, "It's _nothing_. Sorry, ma'am."

The mumbled apology is quite lacking in sincerity, but the woman takes it, clearly used to the ways of teenagers, and nods once before she returns to the lesson.

Part of Emma feels just a little bad for how she's acting and how she must seem. Normally, this is one of the few classes she actually pays attention in, or at least tries to. Though no one will ever accuse her of being a good student, English is a rare exception. Despite her spotty school records and cobbled learning history, she always does well enough to get into the advanced placement classes.

The truth is, while she doesn't much look it, Emma has always loved to read and write. Growing up, the local libraries were always her safe haven. No matter what home she got shipped to, what new neighborhood she had navigate, what new school she had to learn all over again, the libraries were almost always the same. She'd spend hours among the shelves, breathing in the unique scent of old and new paper, taking in the glorious varied worlds that had been opened up to her.

When Emma was younger, she favoured a lot of fairy tales and fantasy. She used to conjure up her own stories, ones where she discovered she was secretly some lost princess with a kingdom waiting for her, or someone with magic powers and a great destiny as a hero. These days, her tastes are a little more cynical and melancholic, and she prefers to write stories about painful realities, with protagonists who make mistakes and blunder around and feel too much.

Emma wonders what kind of story she's trying to write here, as she sits in her favorite class, unable to think of anything but Regina Mills and how she can help her. She gave up her dreams of being a hero a long time ago, hadn't she? But that has always been something of a lie.

Though she tried to deny it, some part of her could not help but continue to dream, to fruitlessly try to change her fate and that of others. It's this part of her that's gotten her beaten up for daring to defend a foster brother against their foster father's wrath, the part that gives change to homeless people when she can afford it, and the part that cannot stop thinking about the look in Regina's eyes as she'd screamed out her horrors.

Maybe this is as doomed to failure as all the other times Emma has tried to be good and brave and kind, but she cannot help but _try_. So, she ignores the teacher's warning and any vague guilt about it, and leans her chair back, catching the brunette's eyes from across the room. This time, Regina meets her eyes.

Her expression is very carefully neutral, and those fathomless brown depths are closed off. Emma finds her heart sinking at the sight, even though she expects it completely, after their promise in the locker room, the brush off in the hallway, and the deliberate seating choice meant to avoid her. As always, some part of Emma cannot help but hope. It's always been her biggest fault, she knows.

Gritting her teeth, Emma quickly looks away. It's not a concession of defeat, but rather, a change of tactics. Grabbing her cheap spiral notebook, she flips to the back and quickly rips out a page.

 _We need to talk._ Emma writes carefully on the torn piece, taking care not to make it look like her usual barely legible chicken scratch so the brunette has absolutely no excuse there. Then, she folds it once, twice, before she flicks her eyes back towards Regina, who continues to surreptitiously eye her, a hint of a question in that cool indifference.

With the ease of someone who's once done this many times before (but she tries not to think too hard about who she did it with), Emma places the folded note on the edge of her table, takes careful aim and then flicks it with a practiced finger that has the paper soaring swiftly through the air, right under the teacher's oblivious nose. It lands almost perfectly atop Regina's table, and the blonde feels a small burst of victory at that. _Still got it_ , she thinks, just a little smugly.

But the feeling of victory is fleeting, as the weight of anxious tension quickly replaces it, when the brunette's lips twitch into a frown. The note is taken by hands that wield it like an explosive device, or a pair of foul smelling old gym socks. Emma cranes her neck and watches, nearly falling over her seat, when Regina opens up the little note and reads it.

There's a long moment when Regina keeps holding the note in her hand, expression utterly unreadable, while Emma is frustrated and impatient. She huffs a little too loudly and gains the attention and scolding of their teacher yet again.

"Miss Swan!" She calls her out again, this time looking even displeased.

Once more, the blonde mutters a quick apology, but this time, it's less kindly accepted.

"Detention, Miss Swan." She says firmly, tone brooking no argument, "And no more interruptions."

Emma would object to this, rage at the unfairness of such a treatment, especially considering she's been a sort of decent student in this class at least before now, but she's used to it, honestly. So she only shrugs again, nodding vaguely in confirmation and nothing more.

What's _another_ detention? She'd only be killing that time before her shift at McDonald's started, anyway. At least, this way, she'd get to do it in the relative warmth and safety of a classroom. Maybe she'd even be able to do all her homework. So, really, if anything, this is a _good thing_ , she reminds herself.

The teacher looks at her for a long moment, waiting for further reaction, but when there is none, she turns back to the board, and continues the discussion.

Once she does, Emma releases a sigh, fists unclenching slowly. There are small red crescents on her palm from where she dug too hard, proof that no matter her casual stance on the matter, the reassuring track of her thoughts, some part of her is angry still, at the perceived injustice.

Hasn't Emma proven herself to be a good student in this class before? Aren't there a bunch of other students acting out right now too? The blonde can spot one sleeping in a corner, and two at the back not even bothering to pretend to pay attention as they chat with one another. Why is she _alone_ being singled out as the _bad egg_ , yet _again_? It's enough to make her want to scream, sometimes.

If she's completely honest with herself, some part of her is always angry. There's a reason she's never stayed in a foster home for more than a year in a long time, and it wasn't always because the parents were shitty. She's been labelled as a _problem child_ , a _delinquent_ and a _lost cause_ before, and they can't _all_ be wrong.

Regardless, Emma _has_ to deny it, _has_ to believe she's more, because otherwise…. what's the point of continuing on? Hope is all she has at this point. And it's this stupid, foolish hope that makes her look towards Regina's desk. Just as she does, something hits her across the forehead. The suddenness, more than the brief flicker of pain, makes her flinch back, before she blinks and finds something fallen onto her lap.

It's a _note_.

Emma's eyes quickly flicker back to the brunette, but the other girl is determinedly keeping her eyes on her notebook, and ignoring her gaze. Still, there's no doubt who the piece of paper came from. So, she turns her attention to the note instead. With eager fingers, she opens it up, and finds a series of numbers.

 _A_ _cell phone number,_ Emma realizes after a moment. In reaction, her cheeks flush, and her heart thumps ridiculously in her chest, as though this means _something_. It doesn't, she reminds herself. Though the scenario is a little jarring, it's not like it's a romantic gesture or anything. The exact opposite, really. Because even though all Emma wants to do is help her, Regina seems determined to fight her. In truth, the blonde understands the instinct all too well. There are scars on her knuckles that are testament to how literal that is.

Still, even if it doesn't mean anything more, the numbers on the note do mean something, she thinks. It's the equivalent of Regina taking Emma's outstretched hand in hers, she hopes. Keeping such thoughts in mind, she carefully pockets the note, making sure to memorize the number just in case she somehow manages to lose it, and tries to return her attention back to the teacher for the rest of the lesson.


End file.
